Girl, Sought (Ella Dark #24)

PROLOGUE

Sunday nights belonged to the dolls. Eleanor Calloway wouldn't have it any other way. The rest of Chesapeake might be tucking in for the night, but Eleanor had work to do. Real work. Not the mind-numbing days she spent at the library, watching patrons manhandle first editions and put their greasy fingers all over the reference section.

No. This was her true calling.

The collection room used to be a parlor, back when houses still had parlors. Now the walls were lined with custom-built mahogany cases, each one climate-controlled, each one housing perfection in porcelain form. Lesser collectors kept their dolls in basic display cabinets from IKEA, and the thought made Eleanor's lip curl. Philistines.

She flicked on the brass lamp at her restoration station. December rain peppered the windows, but in here the air stayed precisely 68 degrees, the humidity a constant 45 percent. Eleanor had spent a small fortune on the environmental controls. Worth every penny to protect her babies.

The brass key hung heavy around her neck. Eleanor had worn it there since Thomas died five years ago. Back then, the other librarians whispered about how she was ‘handling it.’ They meant the money, of course. The insurance payout. What else would a widow spend it on but dolls?

They didn't understand. These weren't just dolls. Each one held a piece of history in their porcelain hands. Take Adelaide, for instance. Eleanor lifted the German bisque doll from her place of honor. Adelaide's face bore the master craftsmanship of 1885 Kestner. Those hand-painted features - the perfect rosebud mouth, the grey-blue eyes - they didn't make them like this anymore.

The restoration table waited. Eleanor had arranged her tools with surgical precision: specialized cleaning solutions, precise brushes, cotton swabs, a jeweler's loupe. She'd learned these habits in the rare books room. A curator's attention to detail translated well to her private passion.

Time melted away as she worked. The grandfather clock struck eleven. Eleanor looked up from Mathilda, a French beauty from 1902, and realized she hadn't even started on the Kestner twins. The twins were special - she'd driven all the way to an estate sale in Baltimore to find them. Their previous owner had stored them in an attic. Criminal.

The twins deserved better. Everyone knew Kestner dolls required specialized care, particularly around the eyes. Those glass orbs contained real arsenic - a detail that never failed to fascinate Eleanor's guests, on the rare occasions she allowed visitors into her sanctuary. The previous owner hadn't even kept them in a proper display case. Just cardboard boxes stuffed with newspaper. Eleanor had nightmares about finding them that way, their perfect faces wrapped in the Baltimore Sun's sports section.

She lifted the first twin from her case. Annabeth. Or was this one Margaret? Even Eleanor sometimes mixed them up, though she'd never admit it to her collector friends.

Not that she had many of those left. Most had dropped away after Thomas died when the dolls began to take over the house. First the parlor, then the dining room, and finally Thomas's study. She needed the space. The collection had grown.

Eleanor adjusted her lamp and picked up her favorite horsehair brush. Each doll required specific tools. Proper restoration wasn't something you could rush. The other librarians never understood why she took such long lunches. They assumed she ate alone in some dingy cafe, the poor widow drowning her sorrows in coffee and romance novels. In truth, she spent those precious hours hunting. Estate sales. Antique shops. Online auctions. The collection didn't build itself.

The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour. Eleanor's neck ached from bending over her work. She'd been at it for nearly two hours now, but the twins still needed their weekly cleaning. The clock could strike midnight for all she cared. This was important work. Preservation. History.

The dolls demanded a certain touch. Firm, but not overly so. Even after five years alone, muscle memory recalled how she'd once touched Thomas this same way. But Thomas had been flesh and blood. These perfect creatures would outlive them all.

Margaret - yes, this was definitely Margaret - needed work around the joints. The socket where leg met hip had developed a hairline crack. Nothing serious yet, but Eleanor had seen enough damaged dolls to know how quickly small problems became catastrophic.

The restoration kit held a specialized adhesive from Germany. Eleanor had paid three hundred dollars for a single tube.

Rain drummed harder against the windows. The old Victorian's gutters would overflow if this kept up. Eleanor had meant to have them cleaned, but finding someone trustworthy proved difficult. Most handymen took one look at her collection and got that look in their eyes. Dollar signs. As if she'd leave them alone with her treasures.

She reached for her jeweler's loupe. The crack needed closer inspection.

Then a floorboard creaked downstairs.

Eleanor lifted her head, then forced herself to return to her work. Old houses made noise. If she was one of those believer types, she’d guess there were ghosts and spirits and whatever else holed up in this place, but the thought didn’t unnerve her, because the part of her that wasn’t a jaded cynic thought that maybe Thomas could be amongst them.

Back to the doll. The loupe revealed more damage than she'd initially suspected. The crack spread like a spider's web across the joint. Margaret would need professional restoration. Eleanor kept a list of trusted conservators, but the nearest one worked out of Philadelphia. The thought of shipping her precious cargo made her stomach clench.

She reached for her notebook to write down the measurements of the damage. Her pen had rolled off the table.

The grandfather clock struck midnight. Eleanor counted the chimes out of habit. One. Two. Three.

Another creak from downstairs. This one louder. Closer to the stairs.

Four. Five. Six.

Eleanor gently set Margaret down with a shaking hand.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Something changed in Eleanor's body before her mind caught up. A surge through her limbs, blood through her ears. Her stomach dropped away like she'd missed a step in the dark.

Her phone was charging in the kitchen. Stupid. She knew better than to leave it downstairs.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Silence fell.

Then another footstep on the stairs.

The December wind must be playing tricks, she reasoned. Eleanor had lived in this house long enough to know how it breathed and shifted, especially during the winter months. The old Victorian's bones creaked with every gust, and tonight's weather was fierce enough to rattle the windows.

The house was just settling. Had to be. She'd locked the door after she’d got back from the store this afternoon. No one could get in. No one would want to. Just an old widow and her dolls, riding out another December alone.

But then Eleanor remembered she'd put the trash out for collection. After that, she'd told herself she was going to do a sweep of the kitchen to make sure she hadn't missed any stray boxes. She'd left the front door unlocked while she did it.

Except the TV had distracted her during her cleanup – something about a scandal between two footballer’s wives. Not Eleanor’s usual genre of choice, but it had gripped her in that brainless, car-crash kind of way.

And another thud.

Maybe a tree branch had snapped in the wind. Maybe the house was shifting on its foundation. The possibilities rushed through her head, but each one felt flimsier than the last. She might have lived alone for five years, but she knew the sound of human footsteps when she heard them.

Eleanor scanned the restoration table. Her tools lay spread before her like surgical instruments: cotton swabs, brushes, the jeweler's loupe. Nothing useful. Nothing that could stop anyone.

Except maybe one thing.

The ceramic knife. Eleanor had paid a fortune for it, special-ordered from Japan for cleaning her dolls’ delicate joints. It felt strange in her hand. Too delicate. Three hundred dollars of precisely-crafted steel meant for cleaning doll joints, not whatever the hell this was.

Another creak from the stairs.

Eleanor rushed to her feet, stood beside the door, and listened to whatever might be on the other side. Wind howled, maybe through the gap in the bedroom window she always left open, even in glacial conditions like this. She placed a hand on the doorknob, and before she could second-guess herself, pulled it open.

She could see over the landing railing down below. Nothing there. No one in sight.

The framed photos of Thomas watched her creep past, his smile frozen in time. What would he think of his widow now, stalking her own house with trembling hands and a knife meant for doll repair?

The stairs stretched into darkness below. Rain pelted the windows at the landing as Eleanor pressed herself against the wall. She wondered if this was how her dolls felt - posed and motionless, just waiting for something to happen.

A creak from below. Not the house settling. Not the wind. The same steady rhythm she'd heard before, like someone trying to be quiet but not quite managing it. Eleanor's fingers were sweating against the knife's handle. Five years of widow-hood had taught her independence, but they’d never prepared her for this.

Eleanor eased down the stairs with her makeshift weapon clutched tight. She'd memorized which steps would betray her over the years - third from the top, second from the bottom, that weird spot in the middle.

The foyer stretched dark and empty below. Eleanor's heart thudded as she checked the front door. The deadbolt clicked into place under her fingers. She moved through the first floor - dining room, kitchen, living room. Nothing but shadows and the sound of rain.

The back door was unlocked. Eleanor's stomach lurched as she twisted the lock. She'd left it open while taking out the trash. Stupid, stupid mistake.

But no one was here. Just her imagination running wild, turning normal house sounds into footsteps.

Still, Eleanor did one final sweep. She wasn't taking chances. She went through the living room, dining room, Thomas’ old study, even that awkward space under the stairs where the previous owners had tried to make a closet.

Nothing but the usual ghosts. Empty rooms. Rain against the windows.

Eleanor's shoulders finally relaxed. The ceramic knife dangled loose in her grip now, more embarrassing than comforting. She'd been ready to stab someone with a restoration tool. The other librarians would love that story - the crazy doll lady, prowling her own house at midnight with a knife meant for cleaning porcelain joints.

She climbed back upstairs with new aches in every joint. Amazing how fear could drain you like that. Her neck hurt from tension, but at least the adrenaline had faded. Nothing in the house but herself and her collection. She'd feel stupid about this tomorrow.

The restoration room's light beckoned through the half-open door. Margaret waited on the table, that spider-web crack still spreading across her hip. No time like the present to document the damage before it got worse. Eleanor could email the Philadelphia conservator tonight, maybe even arrange transport by the end of the week.

Thunder rattled the old Victorian's bones. The storm outside wasn't letting up. Eleanor reached the door, ready to get back to real work. Ready to forget about jumping at shadows like some teenager home alone for the first time.

But then movement exploded behind her.

Something tight around her neck. Vision fading. Eleanor kicked and squirmed, but the fight for breath had her falling to the floor and crumbling to black within seconds. She caught glimpses of cheap footwear, blue suit trousers. And as she sunk down into the ground, Eleanor caught distorted images of herself and this faceless attacker in the reflections of her glass cabinets.

Faceless.

Because the man had covered himself with something that looked exactly like a doll’s face.

Unconsciousness took hold, and the last clear thought Eleanor had was of Thomas. She'd always assumed she'd join him peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by the collection they'd started together.

These perfect creatures would outlive them all, just as she'd always known they would.